


The Perfect Proposal Rejection Present

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Series: 31 Days of Ineffables [17]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), Alternate Universe, Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance, conversation about their sex life, or lack thereof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22053628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Aziraphale wants to marry Crowley. Crowley wants to marry Aziraphale, but he's too afraid of Aziraphale Falling to say yes. And no matter what Aziraphale says, Crowley refuses to be persuaded. So in honor of his 100th rejection, Aziraphale gives Crowley a gift that'll prove good things come to those who listen to their spurned not-yet-fiance.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 31 Days of Ineffables [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560190
Comments: 19
Kudos: 160





	The Perfect Proposal Rejection Present

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Drawlight's '31 Days of Ineffables' prompt 'gift'. Also, this is a trope. I know you all know it. Could probably smell it a mile away. I write it for every one of my fandoms. Sue me. I also rated this Mature for one comment that I'm sorry, I could never make in front of my teenager XD

Arguments start flying at Aziraphale fast and furious the second the mere suggestion they get married slips past his lips.

 _‘Oh boy,’_ the angel thinks as he watches Crowley recharge his glass of whiskey, fueling up for the discussion ahead. _‘Better strap in. There’s no escaping this one.’_

Because the only thing on Earth Crowley talks about more passionately than marrying Aziraphale, is _not_ marrying Aziraphale.

“Angel, we’ve talked about this,” Crowley says, sinking against the edge of Aziraphale’s desk while Aziraphale retains his comfortable seat in his favorite chair. “I want to marry you. You know that. More than anything. But …”

“But …” Aziraphale leads in a teasing tone. He has no intention of letting this conversation become serious.

Not with what he has planned.

“But there are dangers. Risks. We’ve examined them … at length. And as much as I’m trying to find a solution, we haven’t found a way around them yet.”

“Crowley, I want to get _married_. I want to get married to _you_. I want to _be_ married, and all that that entails.”

Crowley looks at his drink, the tops of his cheeks staining. That’s all Aziraphale needs to say for Crowley to know what he’s referring to.

The thing Crowley struggles the most with them doing, no matter how much they both want it.

They don’t need to be married for them to take the plunge and make love. Crowley simply feels it would be more proper. More befitting of Aziraphale.

But by creating that ultimatum, he’s also devised the ultimate bargaining chip – no sex until marriage, and no marriage until they find out definitively that Aziraphale marrying a demon will not cause him to Fall.

“Crowley, dear, my Falling _is_ a possibility. A very real and, I’ll admit it, frightening possibility. But I’ve come to peace with it. I have no control over whether I Fall or not. Not really. I could Fall tomorrow for reasons that have nothing to do with you. It’s not something we should live in fear of. It’s not something we should put our future together on hold for.”

Crowley sighs. Without looking up from his glass he takes a drink, soaking in those words he’s heard Aziraphale say dozens of times. They make sense. And they’re definitely chipping away at his armor. But he has to keep rebuilding. He has to stick to his guns and believe that what he’s decided is what’s best.

For both of them.

Crowley’s fears about Aziraphale Falling don’t simply surround the Fall. Aziraphale becoming a demon doesn’t frighten Crowley as much as he thought it would.

It’s the thought that Aziraphale might resent Crowley afterwards. That he’ll blame him.

That he’ll never want to see him again.

That is Crowley’s one true fear – losing his whole world if Aziraphale Falls.

“Look …” Aziraphale rises from his seat so he can talk eye to eye with his demon “… I know how you feel. You have expressed your apprehensions over this very well. I just wish you had more faith in me.”

“I do have faith in you.” Crowley sets his glass aside, wondering when it suddenly became empty. “But I have to believe that the decision I’ve made on this is the right one … whether you see it or not.”

“And that’s your final word on the matter? Regardless of what I have to say?”

Crowley gulps. This is the question Aziraphale asks at the end of this argument every time.

And every time, it’s the hardest to answer.

Crowley doesn’t like seeing Aziraphale sad. He doesn’t like being the one to break his heart. When Aziraphale looks at him with those baby blue eyes, Crowley usually crumbles. Gives his angel anything he wants.

But he can’t. Not this time.

“Yes,” Crowley whispers, wishing he had another glass of whiskey to dive into.

Aziraphale sighs. “Well, I guess if that’s your answer, that’s your answer.” He turns his blue eyes away. Deep inside Crowley’s corporal form, beneath the lie of his human façade, his entire body weeps.

“I have something for you.” Aziraphale leans past Crowley and pulls a shimmery wrapped box with a curly bow on top from a drawer in his desk. He holds it out to Crowley, urging him silently to take it.

“What’s … what’s this?” Crowley asks, eyeing it in confusion.

“It’s a gift, you idiot,” Aziraphale says, dropping it in Crowley’s unprepared hands. “I figured you might object to yet my hundredth suggestion that we get married, so I decided that instead of battling your logic with my logic, I’d appeal to your _baser_ instincts. _You being a demon and all_.”

Crowley snickers. _This is new_. “You’re battling my so-called _baser instincts_ … with a gift?”

“Technically it’s what’s _in_ the gift that I’m battling your baser instincts with.”

Crowley gives the gift a shake. It doesn’t make a sound. It’s also incredibly light for its size. “And that is …?”

“You’ll need to open it to find out.”

Crowley looks at the gift. He looks at Aziraphale. He looks down at his empty glass and groans.

“All right,” he decides, forgoing alcohol - for _now_ \- in order to get this over with. Then that’ll be done, and they can run out for lunch – crepes, cheesecake, a nice brioche – and put this behind them for another day. “I’ll do this your way …”

“That would be nice for once.”

Crowley pulls off the bow and tosses it over his shoulder onto the desk. Then he tears into the wrapping paper and drops it to the floor. Underneath the glittery gold and silver paper he finds a plain white box, the kind department stores give their customers to wrap gifts of clothes in. He pops the lid off and drops that to the floor as well, all under the watchful eyes of his angel. But when he finally opens it, Crowley sees nothing. Nothing in the box whatsoever.

He looks into Aziraphale’s eyes, at his passive expression, but finds no answer there.

Crowley brings the box up to his face to take a peek, scans it from corner to corner, but there’s still nothing. He examines it using his demon senses, tries to divine any magic present.

But no. There’s nothing in the box.

The gift Aziraphale gave him … is nothing.

Kind of like what Crowley gives him when they have this conversation – no assurances, no promises. Nothing but excuses.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley says, hoping to find an answer to the empty gift that’s less depressing than his own assumptions.

“Yes, my dear?”

“There’s nothing in this box.”

“Exactly.”

“What do you mean _exactly_?”

“I mean you’re right. There’s nothing in the box. Exactly nothing. Like what I’d intended on wearing for the entirety of our honeymoon after we’d said _I do_.”

Crowley’s forehead creases as he considers the gift along with Aziraphale’s explanation.

“Nothing?” he mutters with a derisive snort. “How were you going to wear no---?” The box falls from his hands. Crowley’s eyes snap up. “What?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Aziraphale crouches down to pick up the discarded box and turns it over in his hands, giving it a shake to emphasize how utterly void of matter it is. “Nothing. Not a stitch. Not even my socks and garters.”

“You would … you would do that?” Crowley pushes off the desk, stands close to his angel.

“It was my intention all along, my dear. Pity.” Aziraphale sets the box gently down. “Seems a shame it’ll never happen.”

“Never happen …?” Crowley’s thoughts muddy, stick to the sides of his skull and along the outskirts of his throat. Yes, yes, he’s still afraid of Aziraphale Falling. That’s something his heart might never let go of. But this new revelation …

Every time Crowley had pictured them together, pictured them being intimate, it was making love, and the whole complicated production that goes with it – champagne, roses, four-poster bed topped with a sheer canopy, bubble bath beforehand. All the bells and whistles. And Crowley would do it, every single time if that’s what his angel wanted, because Aziraphale deserves that.

But it felt so stressful. So laborious.

And over and over again?

So dull.

It never occurred to him that Aziraphale might simply be down to fuck.

Why had that not occurred to him?

Oh, yeah. Because he didn’t ask.

And, in reality, that’s the root of their problem. Not Aziraphale Falling.

Crowley’s fears still abound. This hasn’t washed them away. But Aziraphale has a point. They’ve been slamming the brakes full stop because Crowley has said so instead of moving forward with caution. If they’re not going forward, they’re just standing still.

And they’ve been standing still for over 6000 years.

Crowley thought they’d been communicating fine about this, but that’s only because he’s been the one getting his way. But he hasn’t done such a good job at listening.

That empty box proves it.

And those baser instincts his angel mentioned?

They’re starting to tingle. Crowley never let them have a horse in this race before. He’d refused to be persuaded by his libido. But they’re suddenly joining the argument.

And they’re much more easily swayed.

Crowley winds an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, gazes at him fondly.

“Nothing?” he asks again, but it sounds more like, “Are you sure?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale assures him with a one-sided smirk.

“Well, then.” Crowley tightens his grip, pulling Aziraphale so close to his body their chests meet, their hips meet, and everything in between. “Have you ever been to Vegas, angel?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer before he snaps his fingers and the pair of them are gone.


End file.
